One Last Case
by Cgal the Avenger
Summary: John Watson isn't okay. After watching his best friend jump, John is put through hell. Then, he chooses to clear his friend's name. Because Sherlock's dead. Right? TW- suicidal thoughts, drinking, violence and angst
The funeral's an especially depressing affair. John can barely manage to choke out the brief eulogy (shouldn't Mycroft being doing this, the sod?) before he sits down besides Mrs. Hudson. He stares straight ahead, eyes fixated on a particularly discolored portion of the wall ahead. The rest of the funeral registers as a dull roar in his ears, meaning nothing.

He suddenly wonders what Sherlock would think of the patch on the wall. Probably would roll his eyes, be in a glorious snit at how "Un-observant" John was. Then, a glorious smile would appear on the prat's face as he went through every detail, until he went all the way back to the building of the bloody building itself.

It's a momentary, ridiculous thought. But it brings back an overwhelming wave that rips through him. No. _Steady on. Keep moving_ , he orders himself. The good soldier, he should follow his own orders.

He's seen death. Watched men be blown apart by bullets, seen innocent children lying in pools of their own blood. He's seen body parts mangled beyond belief, until he didn't even know what part was whose anymore.

So he knows what to do. Remain calm. Remain silent. Speaking will give him away, will make him break. That's why he didn't want to do the bloody eulogy, _Mycroft you sod!_ He thinks viciously. The anger and old irritation momentarily distracts him... but then, the pall-bearers rise up, pick up the coffin. And irritation gives way to that painful swelling in his chest, the itching need to stop, to scream, to open the bloody coffin. See his face...

He feels skinny, but strong fingers bite into his arm. Startled, John looks down to see Mrs. Hudson, lower lip trembling, kohl lined eyes red and wet.

No. He can't break down. She needs him. He needs to be the strong one, the stoic doctor. The Captain.

Inhaling the musty air deeply, he closes his eyes. Becomes numb. He will do his duty, walk, stand, sit. Repeat. He will not cry, will not break down. Not when Mrs. Hudson is close to doing the same. Not when so many around him are watching.

Xxx

The drive to his grave is a silent one, save for small, shaky quips from Mrs. Hudson. John responds, mechanically, the numbness growing worse as the graveyard comes into view.

Flashes of his face, alive and dead, appear behind his closed lids. His sarcastic smirk, coupled with bloody hair. Dramatic coat with how it billowed as he...fell.

 _Oh, just bloody say it. He didn't fall, he jumped,_ he thinks viciously. He's a doctor, a soldier. He's a pragmatic man, so he shouldn't sugarcoat it.

But then, the trembling in his fingers starts. The denial swells, and he can't... acknowledge the truth. He can't even bloody think of his name without tears rising up.

 _Soldier. You're a soldier. You will not fall apart._

He does not stay at his grave long, only enough time to say:

"One last miracle... don't... be dead."

Xxx

He throws himself into work the moment the funeral's over.

He takes on extra night shifts. Although the clinic is boring, it's work. He sees patient after patient, each face blurring into the next. At least at night no one asks. No one cares at night; they're too tired to ask about... him. About how he's dealing with it.

The pity is the worst. He hates it. He's not a breakable glass, he's not porcelain. They're hushed voices, the sympathy... he gives the same small, wan smile, the same shrug of his shoulders. "Hanging in there..." and "Fine..." become his least favorite words of the English language.

They're all so curious. He looks at his blog once. He sees the flood of messages, the sad, sappy stories, the hate mail, and all the crap in between... and he shuts down the laptop and curls into bed.

The room is silent. Always so silent. It was a slow day at the clinic today. Not enough to make him dead-tired.

He looks over at the clock. Nine 'o clock. Too early to sleep.

John grunts and rolls onto his back, eyes fixed to the ceiling. _Maybe I should get into a hobby. Running. Work out more..._ he thinks. Anything to just make him sleep. His mind is racing, never good. He suddenly has memories of him, racing around the room, mouth moving at a 100 miles an hour, robe billowing around him as he flitted from one side to the flat to the other. One vivid memory sticks out, the excited glint in his eyes as he rambled on and on about the lethal qualities of Botox, and their implications on a cold case. His eyes had been so bright, and gleeful, boyish smile had touched his lips...

 _Those lips..,_

John feels a flush of heat, one that travels low in his gut, settling lower... lower.

"Fuck," he grumbles, throwing away the covers. Tea. No, a walk. A walk and tea.

He doesn't want to think about... about it. _Him, goddammit just say it,_ he corrects himself.

Especially when he evokes the most...painful... no not painful... painfully wonderful feelings in him. In his body.

John growls as he throws on his jacket. The whole flat is constricting him, crushing down on him with its unseen pressure. He feels like he's about to burst, scream and rage and Mrs. Hudson. Which will never do because she's hurting too. And he's not a fucking prick.

John Watson leaves Baker Street, and walks, no, marches. People are either hurrying out to their respective parties and pubs... or... staying in.

The air is cold, London's always cold. The sky drizzles, misting the street. It's melancholic, and oh so sad.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, wanders through the streets. The heat that was in his gut isn't as prevalent... but it's still there, twisted, shrunken down, but coiled like a spring. His skin's too tight. This isn't the usual sadness, grief. It's something rawer. Anger.

He's had nights like this at the army. Nights where he would punch away his sorrows, his frustrations. And his mates, they'd help, because they knew what it was like. They had the same nights too.

But tonight... the anger has a much more... specific edge. It's frustration. But he doesn't want to look at it too closely, because it seems like a powder keg... or land mine. One match, one shift in pressure and _boom_.

His footsteps thud against the pavement, a heavy, evenly rhythmic noise. A drumbeat that starts to match his heart beat. He keeps walking, the mist cold on his flushed face.

The thing about aimless wandering... is that sooner or later, you have to think.

It's like he's being chased by his own head. Especially after the things he's seen... the actual chases he's been on... he shouldn't be so scared.

But the fear is crippling. And he ducks into a local pub, a small, but crammed hole in the wall. He's been here, with Lestrade. Maybe he should call him.

Xxx

 _"Lestrade."_

"Hi Greg," John nearly yells into the phone.

Shuffling and muted cursing. _"What... what's wrong?"_

"Oh... umm. Nothing," John says awkwardly. Christ, he has invited Lestrade out before, right?

"John, is something wrong?"

"Why are you assuming something's wrong? I just... Do you want to get drinks, have a pint or two? I was on a date in this pub and... She bailed, and I'm bored," he stammers out. He winces.

Lestrade seems... skeptical. "It's a Tuesday night... but sure, where's the pub?'

Xxx

Greg improves John's mood immensely... Or perhaps it's the booze.

He can't remember the last time he felt so off kilter and giggly.

Well he can, but there's no use dwelling on that.

Greg has to drag him up the stares. "Mrs. Hudson's around right?" he says, and there's an uncharacteristic tightness to his voice.

"Yes, course! Where else would she be?" John says in a fit of giggles. The room is spinning, careening around. When did he sit down in his chair?

Greg seems... quiet. "You're a little quiet. Knackered?" John says, leaning back.

"John... if you were... in trouble... you'd tell me right?" Greg says gruffly.

John jerks up, big mistake, the room's about to spin of it's axis. Or something. "Greg, I'm fine! Bloody, jolly good! Ta!" he quips, his lips tripping over themselves. He giggles at that. Fuck, is he a child?

Greg nods. "Ta. You know where to find me. Rest up Johnny."

"You call me Johnny again, I'll fucking deck you," he says pointedly.

"Course Doctor. Course," Greg says, a small smile on his face. He walks out of the room, calling out, "Good night!"

"Night." John grumbles.

He leans back, the room spinning. He hasn't drunk that much in a long time. A long, long time.

The energy that filled him in the pub is ebbing away. Maybe he can sleep, just pass out for a bit.

John grunts, and rises, only to nearly fall back as the world reels and careens. "Bloody... fucking..." he curses, wobbling from the living room to the stares.

In his stupor... he sees it.

The room.

He stops, the door suddenly holding all his attention. He hadn't been in there since...

He knows he shouldn't go in there... But, he assumes he'll be fine. He's a bit pissed but it doesn't mean he should be afraid of it. It's just a bloody room.

Emboldened by the liquor in his veins, his sadness held at bay by dizziness, he closes his hand around the knob after several failed attempts, and pushes in.

He didn't know what he was expecting... the bed's not made, books line the floor. The periodic table still hangs as it always does.

It's so... normal... Nothing is amiss. Nothing's missing, the chemistry set is still there, with residues of previous experiments.

John walks further into the room, only to trip on a book stack. "Fuckin-!" he exclaims, but when he looks up expectantly at the bed, he's not there.

John steadies himself, straightens up, even as his head is careening off his neck. He sighs, rubbing at his face. There's... disappointment welling up in his chest. It's so silly. So... stupid.

"What did I expect? That you'd be here?" he says aloud.

Silence is response.

He swallows past a dry throat. Still dizzy, he sits down in his bed... it feels wrong, the sheets are cool, smell musty. It's not supposed... to be like this.

His eyes wander around the room. From the stacks of books... to the test tubes... to the microscope John had shoved in here, unable to give it away, unable to look at it every time he went into the kitchen. Other than that day, this room has been... untouched.

He frowns. He remembers when he once checked up on a patient's parent after the patient's death. The father of a dying girl. He remembers a room, a girl's room, door shut. He remembers now... the father's eyes would every so often darting to that room. Then dart back to his own gaze. As if to dis-acknowledge what was behind that door.

He never understood, the need to memorialize. He moves on. He mourns, but not in his own home. He has photographs... but not shrines.

But now, in the quiet, as he stares at those familiar walls, reliving countless memories... he realizes that he doesn't... he can't just move things. Because that means he's really gone.

Tears bud in his eyes. His face keeps flashing before him, his smile, his sarcasm, and his glinting, manic eyes. No... _no no no no._

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck, and his limbs tremble. His hands grip at the sheets... and a silky something registers at his fingertips.

His gaze darts down, and in his haze, he sees dark navy silk poking from beneath the sheets. His trembling fingers clasp around it, picking up... his sleep shirt.

He freezes, paralyzed. He slowly lifts up the shirt. Vivid memories of him spending the entire day in his pajamas, lurching around between dissected toes and acid corrosions. He hates that back then, those were the most frustrating days... in that he never kept still.

But then, he secretly enjoyed watching him. Seeing his lithe movements, the grace in his frenetic energy. His muscles, moving, twitching beneath silk.

There were so many times John would see glimpses of his pale torso. His lower back, his naval... were always so...

Tempting.

The coil, the anticipation, the frustration are back. Hot, tense, beneath his skin. The coil is low, hot, and oh so tight.

The shirt's soft. His skin was soft... _the night before he died... as they ran, and he held his hand for dear life. So soft._

He bends down... and smells the shirt... but only dust, and the musty smell of age meet his nostrils.

And that makes him so, so, desolate. He throws the shirt down, hands trembling. The low, frustrating heat is pulsing lower, as he imagines the smell... the scent that he was so curious about, he'd lie awake, wondering... wondering what he's smell like if he pushes his nose into the hollow of his neck.

But there's only dust.

He runs, no, careens from the room, breathing fast. He wants to flee, wants to punch things, and wants to hurt something else. Because the pain is eating him, the regrets, the mysteries that he'll never solve because it's too late, too bloody late.

He stumbles, landing at the base of the stairs. He can't even make it up as images assail him. All the moments he brushed against him. All the times he was so, achingly close... but he can't... he can't vividly remember his scent. All that comes to mind is that ghastly smell that occurred when Sher-he- dove into the Thames covered in black sludge.

For the second time since this whole ordeal started, he sobs, chest wracking, asphyxiating sobs.

He presses his head to the well-worn wood of the stairs, crying, nearly howling at the world, at the unfairness of it. Why did he have to have these... feelings? Especially for him, a man who didn't... have those feelings... more importantly a man who was bloody gone?

There's a point he reaches, exhausted, tears wrung out... and he finally collapses.

Xxx

The next morning... he feels hands on him, jostling him.

"John... John dear wake up!'

He opens his eyes, to be blinded by light. "Ouch for bloody- I'm up what?" he mutters. He closes his eyes and groans as a pounding headache splits his skull. It's like the entire tube station is crashing into his head... plus air-horns.

"Oh dear. The inspector man phoned saying you went out... you certainly did."

John lifts his head, and his shoulder explodes in pain. In fact, everything explodes in pain.

Through bleary eyes, he surveys his surroundings. Stairs... he fell asleep on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson's face blurs into view, concern in every line of her face.

"Dear me, you do look awful... are you hungry?"

Instantly his stomach turns. "Sorry... um. Not in the mood right now, stomach's out of sorts.." he says haltingly, trying to get himself upright. Suddenly, a wave of nausea hits.

"Will you...excuse me?" he says.

He stumbles towards the loo and proceeds to empty the contents of his stomach. At least he does make it to the toilet.

Xxx

John is slipping.

The drinking becomes heavier, the episodes become longer, more terrifying. Moriarty makes his appearance nightly, along with... him. Falling. Dying in so many ways, John's lost count.

He tries to throw himself into work. But more often than not, he drinks to sleep, suddenly forgetting his family history that the detective deduced so easily from him. Forgetting that Harry exists, that he's supposed to be the good one.

And on the worst nights, he hates that man for even coming into his life at all.

He'll start ranting... to Mrs. Hudson, to Greg, to Stamford, anyone who's in earshot... about how bloody irritating the detective was. The fingers in the fridge. The constant nagging. The restraint John had to employ in order to not kill him sometimes.

His words get more vehement, more brutal. And even Sally Donovan has to lean back and give him an odd look.

Sometimes he wishes Stamford hadn't bothered. Sometimes John wishes for darker things.

The gun on his mantle. He remembers a time... before the detective asked him the fateful question... that the gun was held in his hands. A time when John's tremors would prevent him from loading the thing properly and just ending it.

After long nights of knocking back whisky and getting into fights... sometimes John wishes that he had the balls to pull the trigger. Because right now, he can't find the strength to do it. And right now, all he wants is to never have met Sher- him.

xxx

Greg comes along on the pub crawls... but then, he starts... not. Starts trying to cap him off. He's fine. John's fine, he can handle himself. He won't be... parented.

The last straw is when Mycroft arrives at the flat after one particularly... interesting night.

"Dr. Watson. I see you've been,... busy," he sneers.

He hasn't seen the man since the funeral. And the old irritation and anger surges anew. "What do you want? Surely not to see me, you bloody bastard," John says with a perk of his head that sends the room into a dizzying blur.

"I'm here regarding your... activities."

"Activities?"

Mycroft slides a tabloid across the table. "Surely in your inebriated state you can still read?"

John narrows his eyes and looks down. Regrettably, the text blurs before coming into focus.

"'Bachelor John Watson Drunk and Disorderly'... why is it always 'Bachelor'?" he says sarcastically.

"Watson. Your activities are attracting attention. Bad attention. And seeing as Sherlock is under investigation I suggest you pull yourself together."

John flinches at the name. Something Mycroft notices.

"Dr. Watson... John..."

"I swear to bloody God, if you don't get out of my house within the next few minutes, I will make sure you leave through a window. Are we clear?" he says hotly.

Mycroft frowns. "I could make life very difficult for you."

"You already bloody have!" John growls. Old anger rises in him. _You told Moriarty everything! It's your fault!_ He reaches out, nearly strikes the man... but stops.

 _No. You're not this guy. Stop it._

Mycroft has noticeably tensed up, face placid but eyes flashing in fear. And John lowers his hands. "If I keep a lower profile, will you never come back here again?" he says through gritted teeth.

Mycroft placid face barely moves. "Yes."

"Good. Get out." John says.

Mycroft Holmes leaves footsteps brisk, rhythmic. As John listens to them fade away, the sadness returns, brutally crushing him.

That... annoying twat was the one who signed _his_ death sentence in the first place...

But... he was another connection back to the detective he missed so much... Another connection now gone.

xxx

Sooner than later, he stops going out. He's busy, can't be bothered with leaving the flat when he's tired from work.

It seems... logical enough. But then, he starts frequenting the liquor store. Glass of wine never hurt... or three.

The dreams keep getting worse. And better.

 _Suddenly, he is there... at the swimming pool. But when the detective yanks off the jacket with Semtex... he starts taking more off. Fingers rip through his sweater, his shirt, his trousers..._

 _"I thought I lost you," he would say, he wouldn't be sentimental, he hates- hated- sentiment. But his eyes gleam with adoration, affection as his hands run over John Watson's body. His bare body._

 _Those hands go lower, and suddenly they're on the tiles, and his lips, oh God, those soft lips are slanted over his, and John is absolutely lost. The heat, the softness, the heavy hardness between his legs, it feels so real._

 _Until he pulls back... and John sees vacant eyes. And blood pooling on his head._

He wakes with a hoarse cry, breathing fast and hard. His heart pounds... but the low coil of heat is there between his legs, throbbing, pulsing.

He lies back in bed. Not your fault. Not you fault, he keeps chanting, the therapist's mantra returning. But the guilt... they build up.

He's already drunk so much tonight... and the frenetic, awareness that he feels... it's caused not just by panic that can be dulled with a few drinks.

He inhales, trying to calm the clamor in his blood, the thick... arousal. Because he can't just... wank off to the memory of his dead, possibly asexual friend. That's... that feels like crossing a line.

He rolls over, willing the throbbing between his legs to stop. For the heat that flushes him now, to just stop.

But his hands wander down. He can't remember the last time he wanked.

"Don't think about him don't think about him _..._ " he murmurs under his breath. He spits rudely into his hand. He clasps his cock, and he groans at the feeling that pulls on him, the hot jerk of anticipation and pleasure. Slamming his mouth shut, he works at himself, hand slick with pre-cum and spit he gathered from before.

 _Women... think of the girl you saw at the clinic, the nurse..._

His grey, steely eyes flash... his dark baritone voice is in his ear. _"God John, yes,"_ he drawls, the low voice sending him into a tailspin.

And suddenly He's there, naked, gloriously naked. Bent over. _"I want you, please,"_ he begs, and John's there, right there, fucking him, feeling how tight that arse is, hearing him moan. His face, his cupid's bow lips are open as he howls.

Hair is pulled, teeth clink, it's perfect, oh God. "Yes, please... please..." John whimpers past clenched teeth.

And then... relief. He comes so hard he feels like the world shifts. Until he's done, sticky, sweaty, and relieved.

For a moment, he's content, sated... then the guilt comes back. " Of course," he groans, placing his left hand over his eyes. Pressing down hard as the shame burns through him, a terrible, embarrassed heat.

Tears are burning in his eyes, threatening to fall. And again, as he rolls over, trying to pass out, he feels salty drops of water drip down his cheeks, soaking his pillow.

Xxx

In the cold light of morning, battling another hangover, John decides he needs to forget.

It was nothing. He was... he's confused. He's not gay. He's not... attracted to _him._

He's been drinking too much, getting too little sleep. A mind under that much strain has to break somehow.

As he walks around the flat... he realizes he needs to leave. To run away.

He needs to be embroiled in something other than his grief, he needs to dive into something.

Anything.

Xx

The first two dates are polite, but boring. The next are over within two minutes.

The fifth... seems promising.

She's a... therapist. So she knows how to talk to him about feelings, his PTSD... it's nice. Comfortable.

He moves too fast. But not fast enough. He goes and introduces her to Greg. Donovan. Mrs. Hudson even gives her an approving smile. And Mara smiles back.

One night, after walking her back to he flat, she invites him up. And he walks home, still hesitant. Too fast but not fast enough all at once.

She agrees to wait. And Mara waits.

After a month or so... he feels... he has to. Especially since the dreams are coming back, stronger. He needs to disappear, be someone else.

And unfortunately, Mara is there.

He goes up to her apartment. And by god, he shags her. Does a decent job. He's a military man. Efficient, strong, capable in _every_ aspect.

She sleeps, cuddled up to him. And as he strokes her dark, short hair, the emptiness returns.

He doesn't sleep well that night. Or the next three that he shows up at her apartment.

He doesn't ever talk about... Him to her. She knows of course. He warned her.

The days are fine. They get along great. Go biking, running. They talk and he feels... comfortable.

The nights are tricky. She eyes him... strangely when he reaches for another glass of wine at dinner. And when she hugs him, he feels... like she's waiting for something.

The whole... sleeping together thing is.. so so. Sometimes it works; sometimes he feels content and tired enough to nod off.

But then the dreams return. The elicit ones, of him in the shower dripping with water, of him in his chair, nude. Of him after a case letting himself be pinned by John in an alleyway. The teasing smiles are behind John's eyes and the baritone voice is in his ear.

Soon, he decides to go back to Baker Street... alone. He's terrified because of what he might say in his sleep. What Mara might here.

He needs to chalk this up to some weird... grieving process... one that will end. Because he's not gay. He... he wasn't... attracted to Him.

Right?

Xxx

"How are your nightmares?"

It's a blunt, but gently voiced question. One that startles him. He blinks owlishly at Mara, whose brown eyes are sympathetic, warm, inviting.

"I... they're fine... always unsettling but when aren't they? Why... why the question?" he says quietly. The other dreams flash through his mind. And he ducks his gaze from hers, afraid of what she might see there.

He hears her shift uncomfortably in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She inhales, and he can feel a question building up on her tongue.

"I just... I thought that... maybe they were getting worse... and that's why... you didn't want to sleep over at my flat. That you just... didn't want to disturb me," she says, eyes glinting with concern.

John opens his mouth. "You're... very observant... " he says with a small grin.

"Am I right thought? Because... you don't need to worry... I can help. Really, I do this sort of thing as a living, and I'm pretty good if I say so myself," she says with a small, wry grin.

John lets out a small laugh. But inwardly, he feels so... terrified. Worried he might slip up.

Lie. Just bloody lie.

"It's something like that... I just... I really need more time, you know?" he says.

She folds her hands in her lap. "I... I see," she says. There's a small glimmer of disappointment, one that shifts as she reaches for her glass of wine.

John sits back in his chair, feeling like he's failed in a large way.

Xxx

 _"I don't have friends..." He sneers, eyes cold._

 _"Right," John says walking away. He always walks away._

 _But this time, the detective grabs him. "Do you honestly believe that I'd be with you? I told you... married to my work. Yet here you are... wanking off to me. It's sick," he hisses, his perfect, angular face inches from John's own._

 _Shame... hot shame floods him. But part of him is excited by the proximity. By the rawness there. He wants to throw the man down, press against him, rut against his lean, strong body._

 _"Dilated pupils. Heart beat racing. Clear, sexual attraction. You disgust me," he says coldly._

And John jerks awake, trembling. His cheeks are wet, his eyes stinging. Not again.

Xxx

It's when Harry visits that John realizes the extent of his issues.

After what seems like ages of avoiding each other, John shows up to see Harry at his doorstep. "Harry?" John says, aghast.

She gets up, jaw set. "Hullo Johnny," she says. Her blue eyes blink behind her owlish glasses.

"What... do you want to come inside?"

"No, I want to stay out on your bloody stoop. Of course I want to go fucking inside, yeh twat," she spits out.

Dr. John Watson rolls his eyes, and pushes past her. Oh God, what is it now? Money troubles? Drinking? Legal troubles?

When they get inside, Harry sits in the chair. "Bit clean in here? What, you got a housekeeper or something?" she says.

"Unlike you I tend to keep things clean. What is it now? Money, police... what's wrong?"

"How about I give you the short version. You," she says roughly.

John jerks a little in surprise. "I'm sorry, what?" he says dumbly.

"Don't be stupid, you know what I'm talking about. Or did you miss the bloody headlines."

John stifles a groan, and rubs at his forehead. "I made a mistake, all right?"

"Really? How many times? Because there's been plenty of headlines," she says smarmily.

John bites his lip, restrains himself. "I am fine Harry."

"Really? Then how come your fuckin' cop decided to phone?"

He inwardly curses Greg. "He can be a bit... overprotective."

"That such shit. And you know what else is shit? You bloody lecturing me about drinkin' when you do it just as bad as me!"

"Just as... Harry, I've had to pick you up four times from police custody. Not to mention the times I had to drag you home during high school. Or did you forget about that?"

"There's Doctor Captain John Watson, straight as a bloody arrow, the paragon of the British Empire. God save the bloody queen! Who cares if he gets bloody pissed and has a bloody cop calling his sister because they think he's a drunk?!"

"Seriously, I have absolutely no idea why he would call you," he says gruffly.

Harry stares at him. Then, walks into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" John says. Suddenly, he feels defensive, cornered. He lurches after her.

She rips through his fridge. Pulls out one, two, three bottles of wine. She motions. John sighs. "Listen, I like to have a little with dinner now and again.

Harry gives him the nastiest smile, and turns over to the cabinets. She opens and yanks out two handles of vodka.

"They're unopened," he says, but he feels her scrutinizing gaze setting in.

She narrows her eyes. He has a brief memory of that look, which happened right before she threw a brick at old Mrs. Williams front door.

Harry Watson strides over to the trash, and proceeds to dump it on the floor. Glass bottles crash to the floor, some of them breaking. And John watches four, five bottles come tumbling out.

John's nostrils flare as rage fills him. But he feels shock as well, staring at the carnage around them.

"Are you done now?" John barks out, feeling like a cornered dog.

Harry turns, and sees His door, shut as per usual.

John's eyes widen, and sheer panic bubbles up within him. Unfortunately, his sister knows, and reads him perfectly.

"Now what do we have in here Johnny boy?" she cackles, marching towards the door. He leaps over the trash in the kitchen, panic rising. "Don't you dare!" he snarls.

But it's too late. Because she's swung open the door, to reveal the room.

John stops at the doorway, trembling in anger. He feels so raw, so exposed. She shouldn't be here. Especially not Harry. Especially not now when he feels ready to collapse.

Harry staggers around the room, blue eyes scanning. There are questions rising in her eyes, and John prays she just leaves, just bloody leave.

But to his horror, realization dawns in her eyes. And she turns to him, face aghast and enraged.

"You... you're keeping a fucking... mausoleum to him... in your house?!" she nearly screeches.

"Harry... please stop it," he says, barely containing the anger, the boiling rage threatening to explode. He exhales and inhales, the breaths harsh and hastening.

She extends a pointer finger, jabs it at him. "It's been 9 months... and this room... hasn't been touched... you... you're saving it... you're... he's bloody dead!" she snaps.

The anger swells; his heart feels like it's beating as fast as helicopter blades.

"Oh my God... you... you love him," she realizes, and his heart drops.

"He was my friend. I'm not g-

"Not gay, not gay! Don't you just love to throw that phrase around?! You just love that you're the normal one, the straight one! Well, you have no bloody right to lecture me. You're just as bad as me. And I at least don't have a bloody shrine to a freak with a magnifying glass!"

The rage swells, and suddenly, his hands are on her wrist. And he drags her out of the room, into the wall. "That's ENOUGH!" he bellows into her face.

Harry's eyes widen, and he feels her tremble in his grasp. Suddenly, something within him snaps. _Oh God... oh God..._ he realizes what he's done, can see how scared she is.

He lets go of her, fingers trembling, pressing them to his eyes. He feels so small, so disgusting.

"Please... leave," he says, and his voice is so quiet, he just wants the floor to swallow him up.

Harry backs away from him, eyes filled with judgement. He only glances up for a moment before looking back down to the floor, hands still shaking.

She's silent, looking at him. Finally, her voice, quiet, but sharp, pierces the silence.

"I may be a fuck up to you. To everyone. But at least I know what I am, John."

John shuts his eyes, and exhales, hearing her footsteps as she leaves.

When the door slams, he collapses to the floor, huddled in on himself. _Bugger. Sod it all._ He rocks back, until he's lying on the floor. The trembling is still there. Because he's so bloody scared.

He remembers the bad nights. When Dad would come in, smelling of sweat and booze, at 3 AM, when he would sit on the couch watching telly all through the day through the evening with a six pack on his right. John can remember the staggering, the swearing. Most of all, he remembers the fights.

He remembers being young, eight, and learning how to take a punch.

He remembers how his Ma and Dad would throw things; take out their frustrations on each other after having too much liquor.

He remembers the joy, of seeing his Ma smile... only to realize there was a liquor bottle still hidden in the flat.

He remembers the screams, the broken furniture... the fear.

John Watson doesn't want to be a violent man. But he has the potential, the lineage that points to it.

And he just lived up to it tonight.

He shuts his eyes. No. He can't cry. Can't grieve and mourn when it's his bloody fault that everything's gone tits up. He's responsible. He is the _only_ one responsible.

After an eternity, he slowly eases himself up, shoulder screaming in protest. He breathes deeply, in and out. Tries to calm his still-racing heart.

He finally pulls himself to his feet, walking towards the kitchen. The mess comes into view, and although his irritation spikes, he feels too guilty to swear or complain.

Breathing out, he bends down. His shoulder bloody hurts but he pushes through it, as he picks up the trash, and steps carefully around the glass. The guilt... it feels so cold, so numbing. He feels hollow, like he's about to be sick.

 _Go to work, Dr. Watson. Go to work._

His voice echoes in his ear. He flinches... but stifles the sob that's building up in his chest.

He can't cry. Not when there's a mess to be cleaned.

Xxx

About an hour later, someone buzzes. Tripping over cleaning products and more trash, he makes it to the buzzer. "Hello?" he says wearily.

"Hi... it's me... can I come up?"

Mara. If it's possible, more guilt crushes down on him like falling bricks. "Yeah, sure," he says too quickly.

He hears her walk up the stairs, and prepares for her shock.

Mara stops for a moment, brown eyes scanning quickly over the damage. "Well... that's unexpected," she says.

"My... sister was in town," John replies, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Mara's eyes shine with sympathy that he doesn't deserve. He ducks his head, and slams more trash down into the bin. "Do you want me to come by later?" she says.

"No, it's fine. I need a break anyway," he says, pasting a smile on.

She sits a little stiffly on the couch across from her. She looks... uncertain. "Is something wrong?" John asks. He can feel the foreboding in the air.

"Greg called me... said you haven't been doing well."

John rubs at his face, irritation swelling in him. "Remind me to... tell Greg thank you," he says sardonically.

Mara frowns. "He's just concerned," she says.

John breathes. "I know... I know. And I know I've been a bit difficult these past few months. But... I'll get it sorted."

Mara leans back, muscles tensing up. She seems very... certain... stoic even. "I think... I can help you with part of the sorting..." she says decidedly.

"You have helped me. Loads. I feel... much better about my PTSD. I can deal with those nightmares," he lies.

But she shakes her head, and he nearly squirms in response to her flinty gaze. "That's not true is it? And also... the PTSD from the war isn't the main problem. Hasn't been for a while."

John freezes, muscles tensing up. And he can't lie. Not when her kind eyes are so concerned, yet so fiercely determined.

"All right... maybe... maybe his death affected me... more than I let on..." he says quietly.

"John... you haven't spoken his name in all the time I met you... which has been three months," she says with a wry, breathy laugh.

A wan, tight-lipped smile appears on his face. "I've been trying to move on," he protests weakly.

Her face is one of bafflement. "This entire flat is evidence otherwise. You told me yourself, Mycroft's paying for Sherlock's share. You can't afford this space on your own, and why would you? He's gone, and you still... keep things how he left them," she says, not accusingly, but pragmatically. Statements of cold fact.

His head lowers, his gaze drops from hers. She breathes in. Her words are now... more strained.

"And there's also... a matter of us... and him."

His gaze snaps up then. "What do you mean by that?" he says defensively.

Her gaze moves to his. And he sees that her brown eyes are strangely glassy. She breathes in, a shuddering breath. And speaks:

"I can't compete with a ghost, John. And you won't be able to move on until you realize that you and him... that your feelings for him were much more than you let on."

It's a crushing blow, one that presses down on him heavily. Mara sits, her lip trembling, on the verge of tears... and so very right. And he hates it.

"Mara... please I... I can do better. We weren't... you have to understand we were... friends."

"But you didn't want it to be just that, did you? And that's... that's eating you up. Eating _us_ up. I won't... I won't be second best. I'm sorry, but I've dated too many duds to know where that goes." She says firmly.

John can't find his voice. He feels... so vulnerable. Exposed.

Mara slowly gets up, walks over to him. She's so concerned, so bloody sympathetic... He should be comforting her, damn it. She's the one he's put through the wringer. He's the one stringing her along.

He feels like such an utter fuck up the moment she clasps his hand. She sniffles a little, and the corners of his mouth are pulled downwards as he feels so desperately idiotic.

"I'll be your friend John. If you ever need to talk... about him... just... give me a ring?" she says with a weak smile.

He grips her hand tight. As if holding her will change her mind... even when he agrees that she should be as far away from him as possible.

"Fuck, I've been a sod haven't I?" he suddenly says, leaning back and pressing his hands to his head. When he finally looks at her, she's smiling at him. It's a rueful, half-smile that barely touches her eyes. Her gaze is full of sadness. Sadness and longing.

"Well... yes. But from what you said... about him... well, you lost someone special to you. I hope to love someone half as much as you did him."

John shrugs. "Just make sure he doesn't... die," he says bluntly, and John nearly face-palms at his own fatalistic humor that judging from her silence has fallen flat on its face.

Mara manages a small smile. "I think I'll head out. Don't want to overstay my welcome."

She turns to go. John rises suddenly, fingers twitching at his sides. He wants her to stay, wants to believe he can do this. Dis-acknowledge the way his gaze still twitches to His chair, as if He'll appear at any moment to comment snidely on his dating life. Dis-acknowledge the drinking, the dreams, and the various signs that show a cracked psyche, a broken, broken person.

But when she turns again, her eyes pained, he knows-and wants- her to leave, Because he's being unfair. Because he's fucking up royally, and he's the reason she's crying. And based on his earlier meeting with Harry... he's not good to be around right now.

"I'm sorry. I wish I were better," he says.

"You will be. You'll be... Dr. John Watson someday. It'll just take time," she says quietly.

With that comment, she walks out the flat, her steps quick on the stairs. And John feels his heart sink low in his chest when the door shuts.

Xxx

That night, Mara makes a guest appearance in the nightly primetime show that is his nightmares.

She's there, staring sadly as the detective is over him, kissing him, bestowing words of adoration in his ear. She still is so sad, but smiles weakly when the detective goes further, hands slipping below John's belt, and squeezing.

 _"Face it John. It was only a matter of time before she realized the truth,"_ He says, baritone voice so sinfully sexy in his ear.

When John wakes, he knows what he has to do.

Xxx

In the light of day, His room is so... ordinary.

The dread that crushes on John still twists his insides... but it's a rather anticlimactic reveal.

He'd only visited the room while drunk. Now, sober, almost painfully so, the room was sharper. He can see the small details. Small scratches in the walls from his constant banging around. The flecks of chemicals that stain the carpet.

It's all so ... him

 _For God's sake... just use his name._

John breathes in, musty odors entering his nostrils. He places the cardboard boxes at the foot of... Sherlock's... bed and begins to unfold them.

The name gives him a jolt of pain.

 _Just keep... saying it._

"Sherlock," he says hoarsely.

Silence.

Feeling a little stupid that he's talking to an empty room, he sets to work.

First, the chemistry set. He washes the beakers, careful to not touch whatever has been growing in them for the past few months. They go in a box with packing peanuts, wrapped in newspaper.

 _"Botoxia... a toxin found in the jellyfish of Indonesia... very deadly..."_ Sherlock had said, a feral grin on his face.

John tapes it up, trying to ignore how his heart pangs painfully beneath his ribcage.

Next, sheets, bedding... it's all dusty, so he shakes them out near the open window. Methodically he folds them...

 _Sherlock never did make his bed. Found it pointless. Waste of time._

He tries not to think about that tiem he was drugged, how vulnerable and how peaceful he was asleep. How he would babble nonsensical things that made him smile.

Books. God, that was the tough part. He hid books in every crevice he could find...

 _Books that he'd memorize, then quote line by line, just to show off._

He slams the books down a little harder than needed. And tapes the box off viciously.

Toiletries. Those he throws away. He barely looks at the hairbrush, he forces himself to not think of soft curls that brushed accidentally against his hand as Sherlock would slump on the couch, during a cat nap as was customary for him.

Clothes.

John blinks at the open closet, at the dress shirts and suit jackets that line it. His hands shake again.

For a moment, everything moves slowly. His hands brush over the relatively neat shirts. He always looked so sharp... so mysterious... what a drama queen, he thinks, a strained smile touching his lips.

Slowly, he removes the first suit jacket. Folds it up, hands brushing over dust and lint. He forces himself to the next one, trying to block the flood of memories now entering his head.

Some of them give him pause. The blue shirt. The white one, the outfit he wore when they first met.

The purple one. A low pang of heat settles between his legs. Oh, there was always something about this shirt stretched tight on his torso. He would always be at his absolute best, solving cases faster than it would take John to make tea.

John's shoulders sagged... and he pulled the material close to his nostrils. Dusty. But if he concentrated... he could just... sense the undercurrent perfume of Sherlock Holmes. A dark, musky smell, the mix of nicotine, old papers, and something masculine.

His knees give out, and he sits back down on the stripped mattress, hands clenching desperately to the shirt. So many regrets surge through him, the bitterness of it all almost rancid.

He knows why he never made a move. _Married to my work._ The only interest Sherlock ever displayed for a woman or anyone was Irene. And she was smarter, more beautiful, more interesting than John could ever be. And even _that_ ended terribly, for both his brilliant friend and the now deceased Woman.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror across from the bed. Pale. Paler than he's ever been. John can see his wrinkles deepened by sadness, by the hell he's put his body through. His eyes are bloodshot, ringed by dark circles.

He's so painfully ordinary, it almost seems criminal that he would pine so much after the larger than life Sherlock. The pale, lithe detective. Who sometimes acted like an overgrown toddler, but was so brilliant you couldn't help but follow him.

 _Pathetic,_ he thinks to himself, shutting his eyes and pressing the purple material to his face.

He hears footsteps down the hall, and immediately puts down the shirt as Mrs. Hudson crosses into the room, hands clasped before her.

Her face is one of sympathy. "So you finally got around to it?" she says tenderly.

John can only nod. He can't trust his voice.

Mrs. Hudson walks over... and settles herself next to him and then places a bony hand on his thigh. "Deaths never get better. At least, not the ones of people you care about. Mr. Hudson, barely shed a tear. But my mum, I cried for a good two weeks before even bothering to get up. And even then, it wasn't over. It never is. Sometimes, I still find myself tearing up thinking about lilacs. Or paid programming. She loved those," she adds brightly.

John nods politely, even as his mind screams that how could she understand? Except that's completely illogical, since of course she understands. "I know. I've dealt with... death before. Back in Afghanistan, my mates and I were always going out with the understanding one or many of us were going to get shot, or blown to bits," he says.

Mrs. Hudson invites him to go on with shining eyes, and a small understanding smile. So he does.

"It's a little different now. Very different. Probably because... because I never expected him to... to die," he says, and his words are choking him.

She grips his knee tighter, then picks up her hand and puts it in his. And suddenly, he's back at the graveyard, in front of a black stone slab, but this time, the tears he held back fall easily.

Stoic, strong, soldier John Watson. Bawls on the mattress in the remains of Sherlock's room, his purple shirt clenched in his fists.

Mrs. Hudson's soothing hands are on his back, and this time, she does the comforting. And he bobs in the ocean of his grief, feeling, oh, feeling all too much. But needing every moment of it.

Xxx

He looks for other flats the very next morning. Mrs. Hudson, although saddened is all too understanding.

There's too many memories. Too many ghosts lurking around.

There's been many times John's come home, to hear phantom music floating through the air. Music that disappears as soon as he gets out Sherlock's violin.

Sometimes, he's tempted to crack the goddamn thing, chuck it out the window. Maybe then the music will stop.

But before he can, he remembers Harry's back slamming against the hallway wall. And he puts it down, not wanting to ruin something- or someone- else in his rage.

He still keeps finding bloody experiments. The other day, he found something that resembled rat tails in some kind of solution. He had stormed into the living room, ready to bellow out his frustration... only for silence to greet him.

It's time to leave. Leave the singularly most frustrating and most wonderful part of his life behind.

When he gives in his key and shuts the door, something in his chest pangs.

"Bye," he mutters, and then pulls his last suitcase into the cab, set to drive him off to the next flat.

Xxx

The nightmares return with a vengeance.

Pleasurable dreams soon shift, becoming ones of violence, and most regularly, of Sherlock's disappointment. He'll be bloody and battered and it'll be John's fault. But what's sometimes worse is what Sherlock says.

 _"I don't love you,"_ he says bluntly, cold, silver eyes vacant as John fucks him.

 _"Why would I want someone so ordinary?"_ he's whisper in his ear after swallowing John's cock.

The worst were the ones where he just... jumps off the bloody roof. The memory is unedited by his dreams. The most terrifying nightmare of all is what really happened.

The bottle is calling. John wakes in cold sweats, throat dry, parched, needing the burning liquor to course down his throat.

He resists. He has to. Lestrade's keeping a close eye on him since he moved out of Baker street. And, he suspects Mycroft is using the CCTV to his advantage as well.

Instead of liquor, he runs. He boxes. Pounds his weaknesses away, even as his body starts to go through detox. He nearly collapses at the gym in a sweaty mess, bones feeling like they're being mashed to a pulp.

Sarah's suspicious of him. So she sends him home one day, says he can come back when he's better. It's the worst kind of shame then. Everyone bloody knows that John Watson is fucking bonkers.

He needs a hobby.

The idea occurs to him as he passes a newsstand after a particularly strenuous boxing session. As he pays for today's paper, the cashier is...eyeing him.

His voice cuts through John's thoughts, startling him.

"Are you... that blogger fellow?"

John's gaze snaps up. "I'm sorry?" he already feels cornered, ready to fight rather than flee.

The man folds his hands together, eyebrow cocking up. "You're that bloke's boyfriend... the one who jumped."

Immediately, rage courses through him. "We weren't a couple!" he nearly snarls. So many times he's said those words... but never with as much venom, underlying bitterness.

"Right mate. Right. You just help him out in his bloody phony schemes. And live with him..." he says pointedly.

"He was no fake," John grits out _. Count to ten. Resist the urge to lash out. 1, 2, 3..._

"Oh sure. He just took a stroll off of St. Bart's for no bloody reason," the grubby, portly man says.

 _4... 5..._

"One less fraud in London. 2 pence for the mag," he says.

John doesn't reach ten. Instead, he reaches over and smashes his fist into the man's face, over and over.

Police drag him off of the large man minutes later. John's vision is still misted red, and he still swears and bellows at anyone getting in his way... until they put the cuffs on him.

Half an hour later, he's in custody, eye pulsing from where the git punched him. The harsh fluorescent lights blare overhead in the cell. His shoulder oddly doesn't hurt. It seems that punching arse-holes in the face was just what he needed.

He laughs harshly to himself as the memory of Sherlock, their first real chase, enters his mind. How he'd left the cane. How he was so surprised when Angelo came by, reminding him that his leg was supposed to be buckled in and weak.

Psychosomatic pain. Well, for the shoulder, the bullet had been real... but adrenaline, anger, righteous anger, certainly put a salve on it.

One less fraud in London.

Sherlock was real. John is sure of it. He might not be exactly sane right now... but he knows that what he saw in St. Bart's, what he saw in all of those crime scenes, was so _real._

Sherlock had to be lying. Why?

"You fuckin' git!"

John looks up, to see Greg Lestrade, livid and red-faced. "Hi Greg," he breathes out, rubbing at his pounding temples.

"You know, I expected this kind of shit from... him. But you? For fuck's sake, what were you thinking?" Greg says sharply.

"Let's see. I was thinking, 'I want to punch this man in the face. I want to punch this man in the face," he says wryly.

"Sarcasm is not appreciated. You're lucky that man's not pressing charges," he growls.

John slumps back. "He was being a git. Do you know how many gits I've given a good punch to on pub crawls?" he says. But his voice is weary. He's still wearing his gym clothes, hasn't showered, and now has to explain to Mrs. Hudson why he's late.

Not to mention he's just... so angry. At the git in Tesco. At everyone who dares to think it wasn't real.

That Sherlock wasn't real.

 _Why would he tell you he was a fraud on the roof then, if he were real?_ A small voice at the back of his head says.

He exhales, suddenly feeling a hundred years old. Greg's fiery temper subsides, and his eyes soften.

"John... I know it's been a hard year."

"Isn't that an understatement?" John says with a breathy chuckle.

Greg screws his lips in a half-smile, then sits on the cot opposite of him. "You must hate me," he says suddenly.

John blinks. Painful memories come surging back. But he decides to do what he hasn't done yet- share. "Yeah. I did. There were... many times... that I blamed you," he says gruffly.

Greg winces. "Why dy'e even put up with me?" he says dryly.

John sighs heavily, but a small smile appears. "Because you're the only one who understands what happened. And Mycroft is a sod and I'd rather not spend more time with him then I have to," he says.

Greg chuckles. For a moment, the two men sit in silence, the dull roar of police activity muffled by thick precinct doors.

John feels the curiosity, the itching need for answers press against the inside of his skull, about to burst.

"Do you believe... that he was for real?" John finally blurts out, dread collecting in his chest at what answer he might get.

Greg suddenly freezes, mouth falling open as John sees debate rage in his eyes. He leans forward, places his head in his hands. "I want to believe he was real," he says earnestly, but there's a sharp edge to his voice. And John suddenly remembers he's not the only one with bad memories he wants to lock away forever. Or delete.

But curiosity, hunger for information, overrides the other part of him that wants to leave it alone. "That's not exactly an answer," John says, stoic and resolved.

"Course it's not. Because I don't have an answer. You're the one who got the call. What do you think?" Greg says pointedly.

John shuts his eyes as an overwhelming wave of frustration, sadness, and memory crashes against him, brutal and merciless. When he opens them, his blue eyes are flaming, filled with a focused energy Greg hasn't seen in a long time.

"He was real. I don't care what Donovan, Andersen, what Sherlock himself said. He was bloody real. You saw him deduce strangers and victims at the drop of a hat. No one could fake that with research or trickery. No one," John says vehemently.

Greg flinches at the intensity in his tone. But John no longer cares. He can't apologize. Not for this. Never for this.

Loyal to a fault. Wasn't that what Mycroft said about him?

"Watson. Your bail's been posted," calls out one of the cops from down the hall.

Greg still stares at him concern in his eyes. But there's a fire that's burning in him, one that hasn't been this focused, this clarifying, in months. John squares himself up, rises from the bench and begins to march, the soldier at war once again.

As he walks down the long hall of the precinct, escorted by a concerned inspector and an indifferent cop, things become so crystal clear.

If he loves Sherlock... Loved him. If he appreciated any of what he did... he will clear his name.

That will be his last... mission. The last thing to do before... letting Sherlock go.

His last case.


End file.
